Chapter 63: The Black Procession

The slow tolling of bells echoed across Faulmont Province—the land ruled by Count Vareon Faulmont, once a towering figure of strength and cunning, now reduced to cold stone and whispered legacy. From the highest spires of Faulmont Manor to the smallest village, black banners draped in mourning fluttered wearily beneath a gray sky.


An oppressive stillness had settled over the province, a hush heavier than silence. The people moved like shadows, faces drawn and pale, eyes rimmed red from weeping. Mothers clasped trembling children close, shopkeepers shuttered their windows, and lords and ladies locked their gates, all bound by the same unspoken covenant: the lord was dead.


The funeral had been announced with somber formality. It was to be held in the heart of Faulmont’s ancestral grounds—the chapel carved into the old cliffs overlooking the western hills. There were no uproarious cries of rebellion or celebration, no defiant calls for uprising. Only the slow, steady march of vaulting grief that blanketed the province like a suffocating fog.


Yet beneath the mourning, beneath the shadows of loss, the wheels of power turned. What was grief to a noble family was a summons to opportunity. Whispers scattered like ash in the corridors of stone—lines of succession, claims on land, whispered alliances cloaked as condolences.


From all corners of the Avalon Empire, representatives arrived. Some came draped in genuine sorrow, the tight clutch of loyalty about their hearts. Others were masks of courtesy and silvered smiles—calculating, cold-eyed, hungry for the ripples of power left in Vareon’s wake.


In the great halls of Faulmont Manor, gilded fixtures reflected candlelight that seemed too bright in the darkened rooms. Here, in the gatherings behind closed doors, the true ritual was playing out—not of faith or fond farewell, but of ambition




While grand halls filled with mourning nobles echoed with paeans to Count Vareon’s “strength” and “steadfast leadership,” in a quiet corner, two figures leaned close, their voices low as silk sliding over steel.


Lord Gavren of Eldwyld, a grizzled veteran with sharp eyes, muttered between sips of wine, “Few here grasp the whole truth. Vareon… he was more shadow than man. Ruthless beyond the telling. His manipulations shaped half of Avalon’s courts, yes, but not out of loyalty, only cold calculation.”


Lady Mirella of Venshire, her expression unreadable beneath a dark veil, nodded slowly. “I heard whispers—whispers that even some within his closest circles feared his ambition. The legends of his ‘influence’ hide the truth: a man who burned allies and enemies alike to fuel himself.”


Gavren’s gaze flickered toward the main hall, where a chorus of flattering voices praised Vareon’s leadership and vision. “They eulogize the lord they wished to see, not the man who haunted their dreams. Such men leave the deepest scars under the silkiest masks.”


Mirella replied softly, “Only a handful know the truth. The king, the assassin, and a select few. The rest? They cling to the hope that power came with... honor.”


Their words were swallowed by the stone walls, even as the great procession continued—black banners fluttering, bells tolling the loss of Avalon’s most enigmatic and feared noble.


Lord Darien of Marindell, “The lands of Faulmont hold weight beyond mere acreage. With Vareon fallen, the scales of our balance could tip. We must speak of succession, lest chaos claim what order can still retain.”


Lady Seris of Dunveir folded her hands, voice measured and icy. “Chaos inches ever closer, it seems. Raiders have been heard across the borders, yet Vareon’s own death suggests a different hand.”


A murmur stirred. Whispers always carried weight here, and none louder than those naming the enigmatic forces shaping the empire’s fate.“


He was one of the most manipulative lords Avalon has known,” a baron intoned, eyes flickering in the flamelight. “To have lost him… it is unprecedented.”


“Unprecedented indeed,” agreed Lord Felrik of Swordhelm. “It is not merely death that removes a pillar of strength—such men rarely fall without cause or conspiracy.”


The mention of conspiracy hung in the air, unspoken rumors circling: the masked boy wielding unnatural mana, the shadowy Eclipse Order, the impossible deaths that defied logic or mercy.


From a curtained corner, the youngest of the gathering, Marquis Thelran, leaned forward, voice tense. “The Eclipse Order. They are no mere fiction, nor a threat contained to whispers. This count’s death strikes at their rise.”


A sharp nod from Seris followed. “Yet they move quietly—as if baiting the entire empire into a snare. Who among us can say they see all the strands?”


The room’s candlelight flickered, and noble eyes met with calculated wariness. In a world where loyalty was often currency, there were none so trusting.


Meanwhile, festivities and mournful speeches praised Vareon as “a pillar of strength,” "a masterful strategist," and “a loyal servant to the empire,” reflecting the facade many preferred.


This duality—the public saint and the private shadow—hung over Faulmont Province like a gathering storm.
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[ Throne Room of Avalon ]


The silent majesty of Avalon Castle belied the roiling currents beneath its polished floors and carved archways. King Regulas Avalon sat motionless in his high-backed seat of black onyx and crimson velvet. His cold eyes studied the sprawling map of Arcadia etched with territories, fiefdoms, and borders.


The great oak doors parted quietly. An assassin, garbed in shifting shadows and the muted leather armor of the king’s personal covert guard, stepped inside and knelt.


“My liege,” the assassin spoke, voice like the soft hiss of a dagger scraping stone, “I bring word from the borderlands... and beyond.”


Regulas inclined his head but remained silent, eyes never leaving the map.


The assassin’s voice lowered further, “We have confirmed no signs of the Eclipse Order within Avalon’s borders. Their presence remains a specter.”


A pause, filled only by the shadowed stillness.


“But in the Nytheria Empire,” the assassin continued, “beneath the ruins of their old citadels, we discovered a concealed installation—likely a stronghold of their origin.”


The king’s eyes narrowed.


“King Velkan,” the assassin said quietly, “ordered it destroyed... all traces burned long before the secret could spread.”


As if sensing the weight, the assassin’s next words came softer still, “Yet something—something survived the ashes.”


Regulas stood and approached the great map, silent except for the echo of his measured footsteps.


With cold precision, he placed a black token atop Nytheria’s lands.


“So this is where the roots were buried.”


Turning to the darkened room, the king’s voice cut through the air, calculated and free from mercy:


“Let the shadows grow—stretch eastward. The time for subtlety is waning.”


The assassin hesitated, then added with a measured tone:


“There are signs of instability in the Luminarch Empire—the Elysian Empire. The sacred realm once as steady as a mountain now trembles.”


“An impending shift,” Regulas mused, steepling his fingers. “A new king may rise—one born from chaos rather than order.”


The cold smile that whispered across his lips held no hope, only ruthless calculation.


“The Count’s death has unsettled more than his province,” the assassin observed. “To lose a man of his cunning and influence is rare... few have unseated such a manipulator—especially so swiftly.”


Regulas stiffened, his gaze sharpening.


“Aren’t we witnessing the awakening of a new generation?” he said slowly.


“More and more geniuses, manipulators, and players are emerging—timing their ascent as if orchestrated.”


A dark sense of inevitability settled over the room.


“Someone,” the king declared, “has planned the birth of these talented ones in this very era. And we must decide whether to nurture or extinguish them.”


The air grew heavy, the flickering torchlight casting ancient faces onto stone, some resolute, others already consumed by the shadow of future wars.


While Avalon mourned its fallen count openly, a secret hunt had begun—no longer for justice, but for origin.


The Eclipse Order was no longer a mere rumor or specter whispered in darkened taverns. It was a root spreading unseen, twisting beneath the empire’s feet. The choice was clear: uncover the source, or be consumed in darkness.


King Regulas’s gaze returned to the blackened token on Nytheria’s border.


“As the roots grow, so too must the hunters.”


And somewhere in the shadows, as the empire’s noble houses whispered and schemed, the game was already in motion.


To be continued